Prose Poem for the Living Dead
By Nordette N. Adams
If you had written your name all over my body and sang to me the passion you claim in that song, then love may not have seeped away leaving cracked earth beneath us. If you had opened the spirit flesh of your heart like you claim you opened and had remained so--as unfurled as the lotus--then would I be here writing bitter syllables about a zombie? My mistake was that I expected you to save me because I was too stupid to know a woman can only save herself. The wise man slips the lifesaver over his head first in the ocean. He may hoist his lover on his back with good intention, but being not as strong as the ocean he must let her go, feel her fingers slip from his wet hands, watch her wrestle with herself in the ocean until she swims with her own limbs either to him or to that other shore. Sorry, I could not have been more of who you needed.
Sorry, we each needed so much more.